"My mother didn't raise any stupid kids," Kaela said. "I'd be a fool to refuse an invitation like that." Conscious of her unkempt state, she said, "I don't think I'm dressed for a fancy dinner."
"I'm sure we can find something appropriate aboard the ship. I'll ask when I call for reservations. My radio is the only thing that wasn't smashed when I landed. Maybe you can round up your friends while I hail the boat – but you might want to hurry them along. We're on Russian territory, and I don't have my passport. We shouldn't overstay our welcome."
Kaela followed Austin with her eyes as he made his way back to the damaged ultralight. She sensed a story. Who was this guy? This was no nerd. She called out to Mike and Dundee and told them to wrap up their filming. Then she hurried to catch up with Austin.
6
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
WIELDING IRON SELF-CONTROL, Viktor Petrov replaced his telephone in its cradle, tented his fingers and stared into space. After a moment lost in thought, he rose from his desk and went to the window. As he gazed out at the city, letting his eyes linger on the turnip-shaped spires of St. Basil's in the distance, his hand came up and brushed his right cheek. He hardly felt the touch of his fingers through the parchment-like scar tissue that covered the dead nerve endings in his skin. How long had it been? Fifteen years. Strange. After all that time, a single phone call brought back memories of the searing pain.
Petrov watched the crowds of pedestrians swarming in the summer heat and yearned for winter. Like many of his countrymen, he had a poignant attachment to snow. The Russian winter was harsh and unforgiving, but it had protected the country from the armies of Napoleon and Hitler. Petrov's love of snow was more prosaic, as well. Winter covered the city's flaws, hushed its noise and hid its corruption under a white blanket of purity.
He returned to his battered metal desk, the largest object in the small, drab room. At one elbow was an old-fashioned black dial telephone. At the other, a fax machine. An empty filing cabinet stood in a corner, there mainly for show. The cramped office was one of dozens of cubicles that made up the tenth-floor warren of the agricultural building, a soaring gray monument to the banality of socialist architecture. Printed in small letters on the door were the words SIBERIAN PEST CONTROL. Petrov rarely had visitors. Occasionally, a lost soul blundered into the office, only to be told that Siberian Pest Control had moved.
In spite of his spartan surroundings, Petrov exerted wide power in the Russian government. The key to his influence was the anonymity that kept him from view. He remembered the old days when Pravda had dutifully printed photos of the Soviet hierarchy reviewing the May Day parade from Lenin's tomb. Any hint that someone in the lineup was a possible successor to the reigning tyrant of the day marked the unfortunate individual for liquidation. Petrov had mastered the art of fading into the woodwork. He was the bureaucratic equivalent of a shape-shifter, a legendary being that can change form at will. He had survived three premiers and countless Politburo members with his ability to avoid definition. He hadn't allowed himself to be photographed in years. The photos clipped to his personnel files were of dead men. He resisted attempts to give him a title. In the various evolutions of his long career, he was known simply as an aide.
In keeping with his facade, Petrov enclosed his athletic physique in one of the baggy monotone suits that had long been the uniform of the Kremlin's faceless gray men. His pepper-and-salt hair was worn over the collar of his cheap shirt as if he could not afford a regular haircut. The glass in his wire-rimmed spectacles was plain and intended to give him a professorial look. Disguise had its limitations, though. He could cover his scar, but no sartorial sleight of hand could hide the lively intelligence that glinted in the slate- blue eyes, and his chiseled profile projected a ruthless determination.
The caller was an earnest young man named Aleksei, whom Petrov had personally recruited as an agent. "There is a new development in the south," he said, making no effort to hide his excitement.
The four cardinal directions had become a rough verbal shorthand in alerting Petrov to the general location of trouble in the vortex of assassinations, murders, rebellions and unrest that swirled around in the far comers of the old Soviet empire. Petrov thought he was about to hear more bad news from the Republic of Georgia.
"Go ahead," Petrov said automatically.
"An American ship violated Russian territory in the Black Sea earlier today."
"What sort of ship?" Petrov said, with barely disguised irritation. Far more weighty matters occupied his mind.
"It was a survey vessel from the National Underwater and Marine Agency."
"NUMA?" Petrov tightened his grip on the phone. "Go on," he said, trying to keep his voice level.
"Our observers identified the vessel as the Argo. I checked on the ship's permit. The vessel is only allowed to conduct operations in the open sea. Several communications were picked up between the ship and an aircraft. The pilot of the plane indicated his intention to enter Russian territory."
"Did the plane actually cross our borders?"
"We don't know, sir. There were no radar sightings."
"Well, this is not exactly an invasion, Aleksei. Is it not a matter that should be taken up with the U.S. State Department?"
"Not in this case, sir. The plane gave its positions, so we were able to chart its course. It was flying near Department Three Thirty-one when the pilot made plans to rendezvous with the ship."
Petrov's lips parted in a silent curse. "You're certain of their position?"
"Absolutely."
"Where is the NUMA ship now?"
"The coastguard's dispatched a helicopter to the scene. The ship has left Russian territorial waters and appears to be on its way to Istanbul. We're continuing to monitor radio messages.
"What about the aircraft?"
"No sign of it."
"There was a thorough visual inspection of their landing site, I assume."
"Yes, sir. The landing party reported seeing about an acre of burned grass. There were many footprints and evidence of horses."
Horses. Petrov had the feeling someone had walked on his grave.
"I want you to follow the progress of the ship. If it makes port, place it under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Alert me to any development that has to do with this vessel."
"Yes, sir. Is that all?"
"Send me the printed conversations between the pilot and ship."
"I'll do that immediately."
Petrov praised the agent for his thoroughness and hung up. The fax machine hummed a few minutes later and spat out several sheets of paper. Petrov studied the double-spaced transcript of the conversation between the Argo's captain and the man in the aircraft. His fingers stiffened as he read. the first sentence.
"Austin to Argo."
Austin. It couldn't be.
Petrov took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Austin was a common name in the United States, and NUMA was a large organization. He tried to persuade himself that it was sheer coincidence, but as he read the transcript, his lips curled into a grim smile. There was no mistaking the pilot's wisecracking tone. The irreverent reference to the director of NUMA clinched it. He was reading pure Kurt Austin. Petrov reached into the dusty file cabinet and extracted a thick folder marked NUMA, Kurt Austin. The dossier's well-worn pages told him what he already knew by heart. Austin had been born in Seattle, his father the wealthy owner of a marine salvage company. The sea had shaped his adventurous personality. He could sail as soon as he could walk, and as he grew older, he acquired a taste for racing speedboats, although in recent years he had taken up sculling on the Potomac. He lived in a converted boathouse below the Palisades in Washington, D.C., less than a mile from the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley. He enjoyed philosophy, collected dueling pistols, listened to progressive jazz….